


there's no greater love (but mine)

by Rori



Category: Bleach
Genre: Cannibalism, Cannibalism Play, M/M, Merman!Ichigo, merman au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori/pseuds/Rori
Summary: Grimmjow bangs his empty glass one last time on the sticky, gleaming counter. The deep rumble of the sailors’ voices slowly goes out, as does thunder when a storm is finished; the Old Song tells of a siren not made of feathers but of scales, its tail glistening in red hues under the moonlight.It tells of the sacrifices made to quiet its hunger. They couldn’t sacrifice girls, for without women there would be no village left ; they couldn’t offer old sailors or grey-haired widows, for it would be seen by the god as blasphemy ; what they could offer was boys, because there was no shortage of those.Except that boys – boys had mothers.





	there's no greater love (but mine)

**Author's Note:**

> For The8thSphynx. 
> 
> I was your secret santa! Surprise hehehe I hope you'll like it! It was inspired by the many discussions we had on Shap's merman fanarts... :)

The Old Song is already three verses in, _Problem with boys is_ , _Is they got mothers_ , when the mixed choir of voices is joined by his own. Grimmjow never did quite believed the clever lies spun by the orphanage caretakers, not all of them: many of those old sea shanties bore some semblance of truth.

‘But not this one,’ he thought grimly while banging his glass on the brownish wood of the counter, splashing foam and leftover beer on it.

It was not meant to be a fairytale, nor was it meant to be a spine-chilling story; it was only a sea song, sung in bars smelling of seawater, salt and sweat. And, not so occasionally, in the small orphanages that had bloomed along the shore as the fishing towns grew; _both life and death reside within the sea_ , had he been told repeatedly while growing up, _and so do we._ There were more fishermen bones at the bottom of the seas, ground to dust and white sand, than there was in their cemetery of bleached tombstones overlooking the ocean; it was one of the few truths to be found amidst the Song’s lies.

Grimmjow bangs his empty glass one last time on the sticky, gleaming counter. The deep rumble of the sailors’ voices slowly goes out, as does thunder when a storm is finished; the Old Song tells of a siren not made of feathers but of scales, its tail glistening in red hues under the moonlight.

It tells of the sacrifices made to quiet its hunger. They couldn’t sacrifice girls, for without women there would be no village left ; they couldn’t offer old sailors or grey-haired widows, for it would be seen by the god as blasphemy ; what they could offer was boys, because there was no shortage of those.

Except that boys – boys had _mothers_.

The memory of old Yama-jii scornfully spitting that word is pristine and unaltered; immortal in his mind, because the Old Song tells of a mother who wouldn’t let the village sacrifice her first-born son to the seas. They would bleed him dry on Hueco Point, where the rocks are the color of dried blood and not eaten by moss; one of the elder would carve the tender flesh of his thighs with a sharp knife and cut the tendons on his calves, so the boy would not be able to escape his fate.

‘Going out so soon, eh,’ Nel smiled at him from behind the counter. He needed to leave. ‘Song is making you uncomfortable?’

It was an unspoken agreement not to ask about the nightmares – but Neliel never could understand that.

‘Don’t answer, fearless Grimm’,’ she told him jokingly, an amiable smile on her lips. ‘It gives me the creeps… But I can’t help singing,’ Nel confessed while eyeing the busy room.

Grimmjow snorted, spilling a few golden coins on the counter. The nightmares were still vivid, even after all those years; waking up with the smell of blood embedded deep in your nose or on your tongue was not uncommon for the people living here. They had elected not to talk too much about it.

It was still a strange feeling to _know_ that most, if not all the grown men in Nel’s bar had wet their beds upon seeing the amber eyes of an agonizing eight-year old boy bore into their own.

‘Is your crew going out this week?’

‘In a few hours,’ he answered blandly, his azure eyes trained on the door.

They would not come back before the very end of the month; in three weeks.

That is the main reason why nobody thought relevant to ask after the crew, the ship, the not so priceless cargo on board; ‘would you?’ had they asked themselves, scattered amongst the debris of the ship.

_Would you?_

.

The storm was raging as they left the harbor – hardly a concern, as they were all seasoned sailors, and had faced much worse; no one sparred a glance for the bloated black clouds gathering at the horizon, for the darkening waters of the ocean, for there was no need.

The drumming of the rain made it harder to hear – the _singing_. It was no more than a quiet tremor muted by the distant roar of thunder and the waves crashing dully against the hull, echoing nonetheless deep inside the marrow of bones. Grimmjow had known it since his first wobbly steps on dear old earth – _he_ belonged on the high seas.

And one day, as sure as the sun rose in the east, he’d belong _in_ it.

.

Grimmjow woke up coughing salt and retching seawater that came out burning his throat; the metallic tang of blood flooding his mouth told him that whatever had happened, it wasn’t good.

Not good _at all_.

‘The fuck,’ he muttered painfully, his head lolling to the side; the deep humming of his men was gone, replaced by a constant whistling in one his ears. Death was as unpleasant as Grimmjow had expected it to be – a bitch headache and eyelids crusted with dry, burning saltwater.

He’d rather have drowned.

His ship was _gone_ – the mighty white and blue sails of his priceless _Pantera_ had sunk as well as the entirety of its crew, down the drain of the angry black ocean licking at his feet.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he almost yelled, his parched throat an unpleasant reminder of what had happened. He couldn’t feel his left arm – neither could he see anything. He was soaked to the very marrow of his bones, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d start shivering. Of course, his lighter was a dead as he was.

Grimmjow gave it a try anyway. ‘ _Might as well_ ’, he thought, his thumb on the spark wheel.

Yeah, he’d rather have drowned –the incredibly oppressive sound of fat droplets falling into puddles made him uneasy. Under his right palm, the floor seemed to be made of to dust and smooth stones, and what Grimmjow easily recognized as numerous fish bones. Numerous _broken_ fish bones.

His shaking hands managed to produce a tiny flame out of the soaked lighter he desperately held onto, as if it would save him from his fate of certain starvation; the air reeked of blood, but that was probably the taste on his tongue dulling his other senses.

‘Oy,’ he called weakly, carefully waving the flame around. He had nothing to burn – it would be gone soon enough.

His own echoing voice told him enough – a cave. Somehow, Grimmjow had ended up in cave.

‘Oy! Shawlong! Edrad – show your fucking faces,’ he yelled again, not really expecting an answer, slashing through the oppressive silence with the same unease; something was _wrong_. They were used to storms. What had happened?

The tiny flame wavered – and died.

.

Trashing through bone dust and sharp stones might not have been a brilliant idea; lying on his back, Grimmjow had folded what was left of his jacket under his head and was staring intently at the darkness, as if it would suddenly dissolve. It didn’t. Dehydration, however, didn’t wait – he had not drunk much besides the two (three?) mugs of ale at Nel’s bar earlier.

He started humming the Old Song, the faint tremor in his chest quieting the throbbing pain of his throat a little; dying wasn’t easy, or so had he been told repeatedly by the orphanage caretakers. It took time. The unbidden memory of the orange-haired boy from his nightmares came up.

‘Did it hurt when they tossed you in the ocean, black blue and blood-red,’ did he pause to wonder, his echoing laugh making it sound like he wasn’t alone for a moment. His mind started wandering on its own, conjuring more and more bloody images soon forgotten; he could no more tell if his eyes were open or closed, for he saw the same scenery of endless shadows.

He’d rather be fucking one of those tavern wench Nel had hired – he could almost _feel_ the blond one slither atop his legs, her small and bony hips resting there, moving slowly against his hardening dick as her long, long hair fell against his cheeks.

Grimmjow decided he’d rather let himself be fucked to death by a dream.

The eerie feeling of soft skin against his trembling fingers reminded him of Yylfordt, of his damp hair after a wave or two had crashed against the ship’s rail; he’d drip saltwater all over the cabin’s maps and sheets, but Grimmjow never did care very much about that.

‘Fuck,’ he heard himself mumble, growing harder as the flavor of this last night rubbed himself on him – ‘ _why not make it male_ ’, he thought ruefully.

He trailed his hand along his warm side, splaying his palm over the hard bones of his ribcage, feeling each breath fill and unfill it; he could feel soft lips skimming the naked skin of his clavicles, of his exposed throat that was not so dry anymore.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he swore between his teeth, digging his fingernails into the offered skin; _fuck_ , he thought again, his whole mind on fire, the many kisses turning into bites.

The clothes still covering his chest are pushed aside hurriedly, sharp nails leaving an incendiary trail in their wake; _I want it to be with me_ , he decided, wishing for the marks to scar. Soon enough, there’s a playful tongue licking at his ear; whispering sweet nothings to his mind – Grimmjow grabbed a handful of hair, yanking at it, wanting a mouth to kiss.

‘Come _on_ ,’ he whined as his hand was slowly disentangled from hair; he didn’t fight it, not when he felt the damp fingers of his last lover unfastening his pants, and slowly freeing his dick and legs ; the teasing tongue is back at his ear, at his throat, and he’s not too far gone not to realize that it isn’t really _flesh_ rubbing against him.

Grimmjow found that he did not care.

‘Fucking _faster_ ,’ he demanded instead, throwing his head back as he was overwhelmed –  the water is still splashing lazily at his feet, and there’s bones and stones being crushed together as Grimmjow was being crushed by desire and want. He needed more of this. _‘I can’t fucking die after_ that,’ was the only idea in his mind as he came hard, spilling it all between their damp bellies.

.

He would joke about it, really, if he wasn’t so baffled by the whole situation.

Whatever had happened, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez certainly had been fucked back to life – the many marks he now bore where still humming lightly against his skin, the Old Song dutifully forgotten. He wasn’t lying on a bed of broken bones anymore either; no, this was almost _nice_.

That might be death, after all.

‘Fuck me,’ Grimmjow snorted incredulously, realizing there was some light coming in; he was still in a cave, with its stale air reeking of salt and dead things. He still couldn’t move his left arm, and the absolute absence of pain indicated that something very important was undoubtedly very broken.

The inside of his tights was pleasantly burning, though.

The sound of splashing water drew his attention towards the darker parts of the cave; his clothes were nowhere to be seen, and if the floor wasn’t as littered with bones as it used to be, it still wasn’t as comfortable as his cot in the Captain’s cabin. Which had sank underwater with the rest of his ship.

Grimmjow looked around for a weapon, now fully awake; the dead weight of his left arm was heavier than he’d expected, but he would manage –

Oh. That was a lot of teeth.

‘What the _fuck_ ,’ he deadpanned, having reached for a sharp-looking rock and meeting the amber eyes and three raws of teeth of whatever monster he was trapped with.

It was slowly approaching, slithering across the floor as if it couldn’t properly stand – his hair was bright orange, and Grimmjow decided he had seen enough for a lifetime.

‘Human,’ it said, as if asking him something.

‘Back off,’ he warned the creature, taking in its fish-like ears and the huge red tail that composed the lower part of its body.

‘You were not that shy a moment ago,’ it said mockingly, golden eyes checking Grimmjow out and staring at the exposed flesh of his tights.

It started crawling again towards him, its many teeth gleaming in what little light the cave got.

‘Don’t fight it,’ he drawled, closer now; he reached for him, gently closing his wet hand around Grimmjow’s ankle, who’s assessment of the situation is now wholly different than a minute ago.

‘Let’s make a deal,’ he blurted out to the red devil lazily stroking the skin of his calf; it sent shivers up his spine, reminding him of the very pleasant moment they’d apparently shared together.

‘Oh?’

‘I want out,’ Grimmjow told him. ‘Name your price. I can repay that tenfold,’ he boasted, trying to look as assured and unaffected as he could by the way the creature looked at him.

‘Can you, now,’ he said, glancing around. ‘I only see poor you… What can you offer me for your freedom?’

‘My left arm,’ Grimmjow assured him, meeting his eyes of liquid gold.

He seemed to consider it, leaning on his elbow in such a human way one could have forgotten that he was probably the same water deity that ate children in Yama-jii’s tales.

‘Fine.’

‘Fine?’

‘Feed it to me,’ he said.

‘ _What_ ,’ Grimmjow said, choking on the only word he managed to say aloud.

‘Feed it to me,’ the beautiful beast asked again, looking intently at the sharp rock in his right hand.

He knew enough of injuries to be sure that his arm was lost; if he ever found his way back to land, the surgeons would end up sawing it off him.

When something becomes useless on a ship, you threw it to the sea.

‘Well?’

It was easier to think when the creature had its mouth closed.

Grimmjow reluctantly brought his makeshift knife closer to his arm, jabbing what looked like the sharpest side in the soft flesh of his forearm; blood started to pour out of the small wound, a fat droplet running all the way to his fingertips under the hungry eyes of the tailed beast.

He should apply a tourniquet not to bleed out; he did so with what he had left of his shirt, noticing the numerous claw marks on his chest.

‘Let me,’ the creature said, reaching for the shirt and fastening the tourniquet faster than Grimmjow.

He smelled like the sea, salt and sweat; he was alluring, with his yellow eyes and long orange hair.

It didn’t matter how beautiful the creature was, though – it still required flesh as payment, and Grimmjow was not one to go back on his word.

‘You better bring me back to the shore,’ he growled, noticing how close the creature had gotten, how his fingers were lazily stroking his thigh, tracing imaginary circles on his overly sensitive skin.

‘I will,’ he promised at his ear, kissing his jaw softly.

The first slice through his own flesh was resolute and made perfect by the many years of practice Grimmjow had thanks to all the slimy fishes he gutted at the market in his younger years; his hand was not trembling that much, now that he knew it wouldn’t hurt.

‘Good,’ said the creature, reaching for his arm, bringing the newly inflicted wound to his mouth.

He licked it clean of blood; in seconds it stopped, leaving only raw flesh exposed; Grimmjow was holding the fillet in his hand, feeling as intoxicated as if he had too much to drink and not enough to eat. He fed it to the creature, watching as he thoroughly chewed on it, each of his many teeth doing its deadly job perfectly; the wet hand stroking his stopped, and he found himself wishing it hadn’t.

‘My name is Ichigo,’ he said, his mouth full of Grimmjow’s flesh who couldn’t tear his eyes away.

‘Grimmjow,’ he answered as Ichigo swallowed, the skin of his throat expanding a little as flesh passed through to reach its stomach. It would stay with him – it would be absorbed within him.

Ichigo smiled at him as if he knew it all – his hand came to rest on the inside of Grimmjow’s thigh, slowly parting his legs as he pushed himself there, his read tail batting the air wildly.

‘Not so shy anymore, eh,’ the creature teased him, his fingers running up the length of his hardening dick.

‘Shut up,’ Grimmjow groaned, fisting the orange hair and bringing Ichigo’s mouth to his, edging his body closer so he could feel its dampness on his skin, rub himself in the same way they’d done it earlier.

‘I require more,’ Ichigo whispered, his mouth swollen, eyeing the useless arm just as hungrily as before; he pushed his body against Grimmjow’s, rubbing against his dick and teasing the sensitive flesh of his nipple with his teeth and tongue.

‘Eat me whole for all I care,’ declared the Captain in a final heated breath, not feeling the teeth sinking deep into his flesh.  

 


End file.
